His Own Troubles.

His Own Troubles

   Late at night, I tiptoe clown the hall,
   easing my way in the dark,
   and find her at the kitchen sink,
   her back toward me,
   the phone cord stretched to its limit.
   "Is that too much to ask?" she says,
   and I take my place on the heated grate
   of the floor radiator,
   knowing she's talking to him again,
   the snow continuing to fall, porch beams creaking,
   as the wind moves through pin oak and birch.
   She goes, "If it gets any deeper, I'll kill myself,"
   and I picture my father, pulling on his chukka boots
   across town, digging out a path to his Chevy,
   his duct-taped scoop scraping through the crust,
   clearing what he'd already cleared,
   slumped on his shovel, breath coming and going,
   up to his ears with his own troubles.
   Maybe after the trucks salt the roads, I decide,
   but when she hangs up and catches me eavesdropping,
   nearly lost in shadow, my cheeks flushed red,
   she mutters, "Wants his freedom,"
   and then nothing else.
   Not whether he's coming over,
   or a thought about how we'll get out in the morning,
   her lips a thin line of grief as we crouch
   around the radiator, listening to the porch give,
   the whole house shifting.